


Basic Space

by brittlelimbs



Series: Reylux Drabbles [3]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Dream Sex, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, rey is ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:12:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on juulna's prompt: "Rey, sharing a force bond with Kylo, shares a completely unexpected dream of his (you can describe the dream, or just imply), of Kylo... and Hux. She finds she likes it very much."</p><p>Rey is turning into Kylo Ren. It's terrifying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Basic Space

This happens, sometimes. 

Rey doesn’t precisely know how to deal with it. How to wake up shaded beneath Anch-To’s slate-grey, shelving cliffs, wriggling with something in her belly that’s much too hot for hunger, a cooling wetness between her legs. How to explain the flush that stains her cheeks and neck to Luke when they meet for breakfast, her sated sleepiness, the hum in her bones. The _satisfaction_. 

She has no language to explain it to him at all, nor to herself. These dreams, they’re—well. Of Kylo Ren. The one who killed the only man she might have ever called a father. She’s dreaming of that dark, twisted thing that wears her scar on his face like a brand, and that would be an issue, except these dreams are so soft. So heated, strange blurred visions of him performing acts that she can’t think of in the stringent sunlight of Ahch-To, won’t let herself imagine. And that’s precisely what they are: acts, well orchestrated and deliberate scenes (she thinks she hears her name, once or twice, she isn’t sure) that leave her squirming, wanting.

She dreams of Kylo Ren some nights, though _of_ him is the wrong word, perhaps. It’s weird; in these dreams, she’s not herself, always splayed in a dark, soft bed in a room she’s never seen. She _is_ him, stretched out into broad shoulders, chest flat and wide and rough-hewn with all his—her—no, _their_ scars (she studies the raised white lines of them, one night, wonders where they came from). Their long, pale legs spread wide, making room for their proud, red cock. 

She can’t tell where her own self ends and he begins, and it’s the most peculiar thing that she’s ever experienced. But she learns to explore it; he teaches her well. A twist of his wrist, long, scorching pumps of his hand—this is exactly how he likes it. _Look, see,_ showing her his preferences, what feels best. She likes the heft of his cock in their hand. It feels good. Sometimes, he’s still wearing his gloves when the dream begins, dick popped out of the dark layers of his robes like he gets off on that, too. She knows, now, how he sounds when he spills into their fist, across flesh or leather or the toned, pale expanse of their abdomen, his grunts, his cries tearing from both of them. It’s call and response: their pleasure, doubled and reflected between them as they both rise, him first, then her, always, close behind. A syncopated rhythm, with her as the afterimage. The echo. Sometimes she wakes too early, interrupted by sunglare or birdsong, the sound of waves as they crash against their island far below, and she’s obligated to finish herself, one hand clamped over her mouth, another one between her legs; she _must_ come. There is no question. 

She starts to feel lonely when she’s awake, when she’s not _them_. She hates it, despises it, and can’t find it in herself to stop. 

Weeks pass, and by day she learns to meditate, how to make pebbles hover above the grass, then stones, then boulders. Saber forms, combat training. But it’s not the same—she finds herself looking for a strength she doesn’t have, grasping at something that can’t be framed by her willowy, golden limbs. Her reach is too short, her perspective angled too low; Rey is by no means weak, but she’s soft in places where she should be corded and hard, something decidedly not feminine. One day during practice, she finds herself reaching to adjust a cock in her pants that isn’t there, swiping clumsily at empty cloth, and _what is happening to her._

In the day, she worries at the dissonance between her mind and body, stumbling around at this ill-fitting, too-small collection of supple curves and strangeness. At night, she learns how to make Kylo Ren scream into his own fist. Tastes his lust, knows the texture of his arousal, fisted in their calloused palms. Learns how deeply he loves to pleasure himself, to take these obscene images and sear them right into her memory, so she can’t forget exactly how his cock looks when it’s cradled right up against his abs. When it’s shiny, taught-pink, seconds from release. It’s utterly confusing and the hottest thing that Rey’s ever witnessed in her entire life. 

Weeks pass, then a month; she’s pulled into him, deeper, further. _Give me back, give me back_ , she chokes one night, their belly trembling with impending release. She’s sick of sleepwalking through her waking life. They can’t—she can’t— 

 _No,_ he snarls, and then they come so hard that Rey’s left breathless when she wakes, scratchy sheets soaking wet beneath her.  

Grafted together, messed-up, utterly intertwined. She’s getting really, freakishly good at bringing Kylo Ren to orgasm with his own hand, and she wonders how to tell Luke about these dreams, if she should; it’s shameful. 

And then, within the month, the nail in the coffin: he teachers her precisely how he likes to _fuck._ And that’s it. She’s done for.

 The dream is instantly different as soon as she slips inside; there’s a man, there, on the bed with them— _Hux_ , Ren supplies– and he’s even paler than they are (she didn’t know this was possible). There is no face, there is no prelude; only the back of a ginger head, off-colored in the darkness, and a curved, gentle expanse of back, stained with the beginnings of a fullbody flush. Down, she looks, and oh—they’re fucking him, she realizes, with long, smooth strokes. Her mind staggers as it tries to encompass the pleasure of it, flexing and warping itself under the weight; it feels kriffing a _mazing_. Their grip tightens. She likes the way their hands look around his hips. 

 

Ren backs off, then, lets her take a little more authority; he does this, sometimes, allows her a little more control over their lanky, too-big body. Rey can’t deny she’s curious, ravenous, even, a little too far gone on this too-new sensation not go kinda haywire. Ren has given her an advantage, so she sets a brutal pace to their hips and _takes_. 

“Ngh—Ren, _the fuck_ —“ Hux’s voice is indignant but muffled in the sheets, face stuffed into the linen by the two giant hands gripping onto his shoulders for dear life. He turns to the side, and Rey catches a glimpse of a fine-boned profile, a slitted glass-green eye. His cheeks are deeply flushed and his lips are parted, full with the groans they’re punching from him on every thrust. He’s starting to wriggle under them because this is too hard, too fast, but oh, _fuck_ , does he feel good. 

All at once, Ren takes over, slowing their hips, making the pace steady pace once more. Rey rages against him for a moment; how dare he! _We were so close!_ But then she hears Hux’s groans, and realizes: Ren’s showing her how to make it good. Here’s the angle we need, he says, all soft hands and sweetness. 

“The fuck’s gotten into you,” Hux mutters, but his voice is broken with pleasure; Ren’s good when it’s just the two of them, Rey realizes, but he’s _great_ at this stuff.  

“Slut,” Ren spits. He slaps Hux’s ass on the drawback, watches the red print blush. Hux moans. _Look at him,_ Ren tells her. _So hungry for the both of us, so open. He’s a general, Rey, did you know that?_

 _No,_ Rey shudders. They’re trembling. 

_One of the most powerful men in the galaxy, and look what we’ve done to him._

_Fuck—!_

_Facedown, ass up like an animal. Just like a fucking animal, Rey._

And oh gods but it’s true, and Rey’s so ready, she wants it again, she doesn’t know if its her own need or just some sick reflection but she wants she wants she wants– 

Ren lets her loose.

So that’s how they do this: switch-hitting, Rey’s overeager, blistering pace, then Ren’s slower, teasing thrusts, back and forth, easy as breathing. They’re all losing their minds; Hux passed out of verbal range long ago, keening into the pillows, whiteknucking the sheets like a man drowned. Rey’s just a mantra of _ohfuckohfuck_ , while Ren solidly, confidently, drives them along, the sole piece of control keeping them from coming in the span of a hot second. But they don’t last long. Can’t, when it’s just that scorchingly, mind-blowingly good; Hux tips over the edge with a hoarse shout, untouched, and the sight and the sound and the feeling of him squeezing around their throbbing heat brings Ren and Rey right down with him.

She’s bliss-blind, and Ren is, too. Plural self. 

Then their eyes peel open and—she’s still here? Where was the rude awakening that she was expecting, the harsh dawn, the uncomfortably sodden, sticky feeling of waking up in her own come? That aching, empty _loneliness_? No, she’s still Ren, and they’re pulling out, dripping seed all over the back of Hux’s creamy thighs. Then Hux is flipping onto his back beneath them, reaching up, hauling them in with both fists and Rey is mostly sure he’s about to sock them in the mouth. But he doesn’t. 

Rey doesn’t know Hux. Doesn’t know who he is, outside of how his hips feel under her hands, the fact that he’s a man with power. But she does know this: the man who’s gripping clawed hands around her shoulders is desperately, utterly in need. She hasn’t the faintest what to do, but Ren’s driving; they cram all close to him, half wrestling, half tender, and their grazing lips aren’t quite kissing but suddenly Rey is _pining_ for it because this thing between them feels nothing but right. 

In that split instant, Hux’s hooded eyes are wide; knowing. He saw something, in their face. 

Rey thinks it was her. 

She wakes up. 

 

(They aren’t dreams. She knows this.)

 

A million lightyears away, down, buried in the durasteel catacombs of Starkiller Base, Hux knits his hands in Kylo Ren’s hair. The bed is wet beneath him, still leaking Ren’s come, but he doesn’t mind.

“So,” he breathes, trying for nonchalance but failing desperately; he hasn’t come that hard in _months_. “That was her?” 

“Yes.” Ren’s eyes are glittering in the dark. 

“She’s—incredible.”

“I know.“ His breath is ghosting on Hux’s mouth. It feels hot. It’s feels good. “I know.” 

**Author's Note:**

> come chat about reylux or reylo or whatever paring with me at floatin-on-bespin.tumblr.com 
> 
> comments always very welcome!


End file.
